


What Pairs Better With Me Than You?

by EmiWanKenobi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Ending, Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Good Omens: Lockdown, Gratuitous use of italics, IDK how to tag this tbh, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, author knows nothing about wines but trusts that google does, it's just a continuation/alternate outcome to the lockdown short, its not quite angst but kinda maybe??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmiWanKenobi/pseuds/EmiWanKenobi
Summary: A sort of alternate ending/continuation of the Good Omens lockdown short. Crowley says goodnight and hangs up, but Aziraphale finds he can't just leave it at that.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 170
Collections: Good Omens Lockdown fics





	What Pairs Better With Me Than You?

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY GOOD OMENS DAY!!  
> I know I'm like the thousandth person to do this but inspiration hit so here we go.

_“…You know, I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake. I could bring a bottle, a case of something drinkable?”_

Aziraphale frowns, and habit brings denial to his lips before he can even think of a different reply. “No, I—I—I’m afraid that would be breaking the rules. Out of the question!” A deep breath. “I’ll see you when this is over.”

A half second of quiet before the reply comes. _“Right.”_ Aziraphale frowns, hang on, that’s not right. _“Yeah... I’m setting the alarm for July_ . _Goodnight, Angel.”_

“Hang on, Crowley,” Aziraphale begins, but the line has already clicked dead in his ear, the call disconnected before he can say anything else. He stares at the phone for a moment before slowly returning the receiver to its cradle, disappointment settling heavy in his chest. Now what on earth was that all about? Had he said the wrong thing? Crowley had certainly sounded unhappy. And for him to simply hang up like that, that wasn’t like him at all.

“I wonder what’s gotten into him,” Aziraphale muses, allowing his worry to flow from his voice into the very, very empty air of his shop.

“I’m sure he’s alright,” he added, pausing again, but of course nothing answered back. His cakes and his books were all entirely non-interested in the subject, it would seem. Aziraphale fretted.

“He needn’t have hung up like that. And really, that isn’t how it’s supposed to work,” he went on objecting aloud. He had thought—well, that had always been the way it had worked before; he would say _oh no_ and _oh dear_ and _we couldn’t possibly—_

And Crowley would counter with _what if_ and _why not_ and _come on, Angel_ , and _no one will know_ . And then, whatever it was, they would. Dinner, a concert, raising the supposed antichrist with the goal of avoiding Armageddon. At the start of every proposition he would say _no_ , and Crowley would say _but why not yes_ , and it was simple as that. It was a game they’d played almost since the very beginning.

But not this time, apparently, and Aziraphale can’t quite put a name to the feeling that settles in his chest at the thought. Can’t quite help but wonder _why_ not this time.

“What _has_ gotten into him?” he once again asks his empty shop, and once again he receives no answer. Admittedly he is rather lonely here, with no one coming and going. Even those pesky would-be thieves had been almost pleasant company after days all by himself.

“He won’t _really_ sleep until July, will he?” he wonders aloud, and experiences a sinking feeling of certainty which he doesn’t like at all. “Oh dear.”

Without really realizing he had come to some sort of decision Aziraphale dials the only number he knows by heart for the second time this morning, his ancient phone connecting. He does _not_ fidget with the cord while the line rings one, twice—

_“What?”_

The greeting is much the same as the first time he called, sharp and annoyed, and Aziraphale realizes much too late that he hasn’t actually decided what he wanted to say.

“Ah, Crowley? It’s me—sorry, yes, you know that. Um—I—you see—yes.” A painful half second’s pause. “Hello again.”

Across the line he hears a sigh, and can easily imagine Crowley pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. _“Something you forgot to say, Angel?”_ he asks, sounding just on the edge of his patience. Aziraphale knows he needs to say something, and quickly.

“Yes, actually. Um. I forgot to mention,” he begins, stalling for time. He looks around the room for inspiration and finds it in the half eaten remains of the schwarzwälder kirschtorte. “Wine.”

 _“Wine.”_ Crowley echoes, impatience now mixing with bewilderment.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says again. “Yes, wine. You see I made a lovely schwarzwälder kirschtorte, I think I mentioned it?”

 _“You had to miracle the cherries, yeah,”_ Crowley confirms. _“What’s that got to do with wine? Or_ me _?”_

“Oh, well, you see, I’m afraid that I’m running rather low on a good wine to—to pair with a few of my desserts,” Aziraphale says, absolutely refusing to acknowledge how utterly ridiculous he must sound just then. “Specifically something that pairs well with chocolate, and…”

Silence descends as he trails off, the kind filled with static from his ancient phone line and absolutely nothing else. It goes on for long enough that Aziraphale begins to wonder if maybe they’ve been disconnected—or worse, that Crowley has hung up on him again. He fidgets as he says, “Crowley?”

A stirring breaks the silence. _“Yeah. Yeah, Angel, I’m here_.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale answers, and presses on before silence can fall again and make things even more awkward. “Then, I, um… I don’t suppose you know where I would be able to get some. Wine. That would pair well with the kirschtorte.” He clears his throat. “ A nice pinot noir, perhaps a whole case?”

The sound of movement crackles through again. _“I’m fresh out of pinot noir, I’m afraid,”_ Crowley says, and Aziraphale feels fresh disappointment beginning to creep in, alongside embarrassment.

“Oh, I see,” he begins. “Well—”

 _“I’ve got some port though,”_ Crowley interrupts. _“A whole case, even. That pairs with cherries and chocolate well enough, don’t you think?”_

Had Crowley told him he’d gotten his hands on a second copy of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ Aziraphale could hardly have been more pleased. It’s only ages of practice that allows him to reply with any semblance of being calm, and even then glee slips through that he can’t hide. “Oh, oh yes, I believe a port would do _very_ nicely.”

 _“Good,”_ Crowley says, and _“Great. I’ll just, er, pack up a few bottles and pop over, shall I?”_

He sounds uncertain, and small wonder really, Aziraphale thinks, considering that very same proposal had been dashed down by himself not ten minutes before. Only here it is again, Crowley reaching out and leaving it for Aziraphale to decide. Just like always. Probably waiting for Aziraphale to hem and haw and come up with a reason why they shouldn’t.

 _Not anymore,_ he thinks, determined, lips pressed in a thin line as if to hold back the old habits of objection. _Certainly not today._

 _“Aziraphale?”_ Crowley asks, after too much quiet. Doubt has crept into his voice, doubt and resignation. He thinks he knows what’s coming, and it’s that which finally spurs Aziraphale into saying what he knows he ought to have done long, long before now.

“Yes,” he says, with a deep breath and six thousand years of tenderness creeping into his tone. “Yes, please. I’d like that very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos are cupcakes and comments are love.


End file.
